Poor Florence! what conflicting thoughts distressed her when left to her own reflections, for notwithstanding her resolution of the morning, her confidence in Crayford began to be shaken, and that it was so pained her. She longed for some kind, sympathizing friend to whom she could confide her doubts, and who would counsel her how to act. Among her few acquaintances she knew of none capable of advising her, and the good old woman who acted as her housekeeper, although she loved her dear young mistress, and would go to the ends of the earth to serve her, could be of little assistance in a case like the present. She did not love Crayford, yet she felt he was one who had interested her more than any person she had ever met with, one whom, perhaps, she might learn to love; and then, should he prove the villain, should she find that the warnings of the unknown were but too true—what would be her fate! At one moment she resolved to dismiss him forever from her presence, and the next her heart accused her of prejudice and injustice. Poor girl! never had she felt so unhappy as when that night she rested her aching head upon her pillow. Hark! what sweet music floats around her, and insensibly yielding to its soothing power, she sunk into a gentle, refreshing slumber. When she awoke the sun was already glinting bravely through the muslin window-shades, and with a much lighter heart, she sprang from her couch. Remembering she had invited Crayford to breakfast with her, she hastily made her toilet. A small pleasure party, acquaintances of Florence, had been formed for Cape May. They were to start at an early hour, and Crayford had so earnestly pleaded to make one of the number, that finally she had consented. They were to breakfast together, and then proceed to the place of rendezvous. Just as Florence was about descending to the breakfast-room, a note was handed her. She turned pale as she took it, for she saw it was from the unknown. With a trembling hand she broke the seal and read: “Ere it may be too late, listen to the warning voice of your friend. Let me arouse you from that pleasing repose, which, like the calm preceding a tempest, lulls you in such fancied security, let me bid you shun Crayford—shun _him_ whose breath would sully the purity of an angel—shun him as you would the viper in your path!” As Florence finished reading, she sunk into a chair, and covering her face with her hands, burst into tears. “Mr. Crayford is below, ma’am,” said a servant, entering. Alas! how should she act! There was a truth and earnestness about the note she dared not disregard, and a few moments’ reflection determined her to avoid him until she could learn either the truth or falsehood of these heavy accusations. She therefore bade the servant say that a violent headache would preclude her from joining the intended excursion—and she also sent a note of the same purport to the lady manager of the party.